User blog:Squibstress/Epithalamium - Chapter 37
Title: Epithalamium Author: Squibstress Rating: MA Genre: Drama, romance Warning/s: Explicit sexual situations; teacher-student relationship (of-age); language, violence Published: 23/05/2017 Disclaimer: All characters, settings and other elements from the Harry Potter franchise belong to J. K. Rowling. Chapter Thirty-Seven "Love ... I don't think it belongs in the same breath as shame." What did Gellert tell him? The question tormented Albus for days. He told himself he was concerned that Gellert had set Tom on the same path he and Albus had intended to follow—a hunt for the Deathly Hallows—but that was a half-truth. The Elder Wand was safe with Albus. As for the Cloak of Invisibility, Albus didn't worry much about it. There were other ways to become invisible—difficult to learn, but not at all beyond the talents of a wizard like Tom Riddle. The Resurrection Stone was another matter. The stone, if it existed, was said to have the power to recall the dead. Gellert had wanted it to create an army of Inferi, and such a use would no doubt appeal to a Tom Riddle who was evidently intent on following in Gellert Grindelwald's Dark footsteps. What was, in truth, more disturbing to Albus was the idea that Gellert might have told Tom Riddle about him. About what had really happened to his mother and to Ariana, about what he and Gellert had planned. And that Albus had loved him. Albus did not think he could bear to have the world know about his terrible, shameful past. It had never come out publicly; both his mother's and Ariana's deaths had been written off as magical accidents by an MLE more than thirty years from developing the Priori Incantatem spell that would have told them decisively whose wands killed Kendra and Ariana Dumbledore. If Tom Riddle discovered the true extent of Albus's involvement with the Darkest wizard of the modern era, Albus had little doubt that the young man would use the information to discredit him. He would lose his places on the Wizengamot and the International Confederation, and it was quite likely that he'd be removed from Hogwarts as well. Those losses would be bearable, although over the twenty-eight years he had been there, the school had become increasingly important to him. More significantly, however, if the story of Albus Dumbledore's past came out, the Ministry and everyone else would lose confidence in him. His ability to fight this new threat would be seriously hampered. Why, they would ask, should we put our trust in a man who allowed such an evil wizard to flourish for so long, knowing what he was? What could Albus answer? And what could he say to Minerva? He had foolishly allowed himself to fall in love with her again. And he had begun to believe they might have a future together. He had almost forgotten why it was impossible. No matter. When she found out, when it came out what he had done, she would be horrified. A woman like Minerva McGonagall would not understand the kind of weakness that had led to the deaths of so many, beginning with his beloved sister, of that he was certain. Like a man condemned, Albus waited for the blade to fall. ~oOo~ Two days later, Albus was sitting in his office when he heard a voice call from the Floo, "It's Butterbeer today. Hope you're thirsty. I'll have about four and half, I think." It was Alastor Moody. When Albus looked into the fireplace, he was unsurprised to find nobody there. He felt the first pricks of anxiety; Moody hadn't used their code phrase in years, not since he had worked with Albus to track down the remaining Blackrobes in Britain. Four and a half. That meant Moody would be at the pub at four-thirty that afternoon. Searching his memory for the code they had used, Albus recalled that "it's Butterbeer" meant that Alastor would be using a glamour and would be drinking Butterbeer—an unusual choice of beverage at an establishment like the Hog's Head. At ten past four, Albus headed out across the grounds. When he stepped out of the gate and was out of sight of the school, he drew his wand and applied a glamour that made him look like a plump, clean-shaven, middle-aged man with black hair and an aquiline nose. He added a limp for good measure. He didn't use glamours often—they were fairly easy to detect and hard to hold for long—but Alastor's obvious concern about secrecy suggested it might be prudent. Besides, the patrons of the Hog's Head wouldn't be likely to look closely enough to detect the glamour, and even if they did, they wouldn't question him about it; men with things to hide didn't generally pry into other men's secrets. He spied Moody sitting at a table in the far corner of the room. He had a long, grey beard and bushy eyebrows. His skin was a medium-brown that seemed to reflect the light from his bald head, but the deep curse scar he had recently got bringing in the last known Blackrobe in Britain still cut a jagged boundary between the upper and lower portions of his right cheek. Albus approached and said, "Mind if I join you? I'm very thirsty." Moody nodded, and Albus sat. "What'll it be?" asked Moody, a charm obviously changing his normal light Irish lilt to the slightly halting Bajan accent of Barbados. "What you're having," replied Albus, his own voice disguised by a different charm that made it slightly rougher and higher than his natural sound. Moody brought the Butterbeers to the table, and they drank in silence for a few minutes. When Albus had finished his drink, Alastor gestured to the stairway near the back. "Want to?" "Yes, all right," Albus answered. "I'll have word with the barkeep." He approached the bar where Aberforth was pouring three tumblers of Firewhisky. "Hold yer water, I'll be there in a tic," Aberforth grumbled. He sent the Firewhisky down to the end of the bar with his wand, where it was retrieved by a burly man who threw a few Sickles down and stalked off to a table near the door. "'Nother round for you and yer friend?" asked Aberforth. "No, thanks," replied Albus. Lowering his voice and removing the charm that disguised it, he said, "Is the upstairs room available?" Understanding, Aberforth gave a terse, "Aye," then turned back to his work. Albus looked over at Moody and nodded briefly then went up the stairs. Moody joined him in the small sitting room moments later. Anyone who had noticed them go up together would think they were there to avail themselves of one of the three small, private bedrooms above the pub. Both men removed their glamours and sat down near the fire. Without further ceremony, Alastor said, "Mort Borgin's dead." Albus knew Moody was watching him for a reaction, so he kept his face impassive despite the shock. "I'm sorry to hear it, but why did you feel the need to give me the news in person?" "He was your man in the Death Eaters, wasn't he?" "Death Eaters?" "Come off it, Professor, this is me you're talking to," said Moody with a small smile. "I do approve the canniness, but there isn't any need. Here, for good faith: Professor Fancourt caught me trying to shag Laura Davies in a Ravenclaw Tower closet in my sixth year. You spent my detention lecturing me about being a gentleman and teaching me a contraceptive charm." "Very well. We've established that you are indeed Alastor Moody. Why do you think Mortimer Borgin is my man?" "I've been watching the Death Eaters too. Kind of an extra-curricular assignment I've given myself; MLE isn't too fussed about 'em at the moment, but anytime a bunch of sods like the Lestranges and the Notts and the Averys form a club, it's a bad business, and I take notice, even if my superiors"—he gave a look that said exactly what he thought of them—"have their heads too far up their ... well ... they don't pay attention, is what I mean to say." "I see," said Albus. "And what of Mortimer Borgin?" "He wasn't careful enough," Moody said with obvious disgust. "I followed him here three weeks ago; he made it too bloody easy. Wasn't hard to figure out who he was meeting. One of the smarter of those bastards must have started to wonder where Mort was getting his sauce—the pubs around the Alley were under orders to chuck him out if he showed his face—and put the same twos together that I did." "What happened?" "He was found this morning in the alley in the back of his dad's shop. His skull was bashed in. Someone tried to make it look like an accident—there was a smashed up Cleansweep near him, and he reeked of Firewhisky." An icy hand gripped Albus's heart. "What does MLE think?" "Exactly what someone wants them to think—that he was pissed off his nut and fell. Typical." Moody snorted. "They find no sign of magic and figure it can't be murder. But I know when a man's bumped his noggin and when he's taken a Beater's bat to the skull. Besides," Moody lowered his voice. "He had this in his pocket." He held out a clipping from the Daily Prophet. Albus took and unfolded it. He was suddenly staring into his own face from twelve years prior. Photo-Albus was squinting at the flashes from photographers' cameras and attempting to keep the reporters that surrounded him at arm's length. The paper was dated 8 March 1945—the day Albus had returned from Germany. Albus looked up after a moment to see Moody eyeing him. The young Auror said, "Yeah, I know. I shouldn't have taken it. But a little voice told me you'd want to know about it and that maybe you'd prefer it if nobody else did." "Thank you, Alastor," Albus said, impressed by the young man's acumen. Moody nodded. "I understand why you did it—good to have an insider and all that," he said, "but next time you want a spy, give me a shout first. Borgin was ... not to speak ill of the dead, mind you ... but he was unreliable and an amateur. If he hadn't got caught first, he would've sold you out eventually. I know the type." "Maybe," said Albus. "He was a troubled young man, but he wasn't a bad one." Moody gave a grunt that signalled his scepticism on that point. "He had a double misfortune, Alastor. He had a weakness for drink, and he was born into a family attracted to Darkness. In fact, I'd be surprised if the former didn't follow directly from the latter." "Anyway," said Alastor, "I know a few blokes who could probably get inside, find out about their leader and report back to us, and who wouldn't get themselves killed for their troubles. If you want, I could—" "No, no. There's no need yet." The last thing Albus wanted was to put another young man in harm's way. "We'll just keep an eye on these—Death Eaters, you say they call themselves?" "Yeah. Heard it from Dung Fletcher. He's friendly with Macnair, if friendly includes being a dogsbody for that bit of Kneazle-sick. Macnair's looking for books on bonding magic—outlawed stuff—enslavement marks, that kind of thing. Told Dung he wanted it for his 'club'. When Dung made noises about wanting to join, Macnair got all toffee-nosed, said it was for pure-bloods only. Told him they were called the 'Death Eaters', like that'd scare him off. It did, too. Dung's got the stones of a four-year-old girl." "How did you get all this out of him, then?" Moody shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Let's just say he and I have an agreement: he keeps his ear to the ground in the Alley, and I refrain from letting MLE know about certain youthful indiscretions." "I see," said Albus. The two men looked at one another with understanding. Albus returned to the castle deeply disturbed. If Alastor Moody had been following this nascent "club", it meant there was something to it, as Albus had feared. Moody was among the most perceptive people Albus had ever met, and while some would call him an alarmist—and did—Albus knew he was dead right most of the time. The impulsive boy Albus had known had turned into a thoughtful, carefully calculating young man, albeit one with an explosive temper that had landed him in trouble on more than one occasion. It was good to have him as an ally. Perhaps Moody could convince the Ministry to take the new threat seriously even if Albus were to fall into disgrace. Someone was sending him a message. They had thrown down the gauntlet with Borgin's murder, and the newspaper was clearly meant to tell Albus that they knew what he was doing. Did it also mean they knew about his connection with Gellert? Albus tried to push that thought away. It doesn't matter. What mattered was that a young man was dead, thanks to his connection with Albus Dumbledore—another entry in Albus's personal Butcher's Bill. He summoned a house-elf, telling her to inform the Deputy Head that he would be absent from dinner in the Great Hall that evening. He had no appetite and no desire to look at the sea of young faces looking up at him as if he could keep them safe. He buried himself in correspondence and didn't look up until he heard the gargoyle's voice announce that Professor McGonagall was seeking entrance to his office. ~oOo~ Minerva was surprised that the Headmaster's chair remained empty throughout the evening meal. If Albus was absent from the castle, she would have expected a note from him cancelling their Saturday-evening chess game. After most of the students had left the Great Hall, Minerva excused herself and headed to the Headmaster's tower to look for him. When she reached the door to his private quarters, she knocked several times but received no answer. "Is the Headmaster in, do you know?" she asked the portrait of Prospero that guarded the entryway. "I do not know, my lady," the portrait answered in Italian-accented English. "Shall I enquire within?" "Please do." The portrait disappeared for a few moments, then returned, saying, "The Headmaster is not in his chambers." "Thank you." She descended the two flights of stairs to the entry to his office. When he heard the gargoyle announce her, Albus's heart leapt, then sank. How could he face Minerva? "Admit her," he told the gargoyle. A moment later, he heard the knock at his inner office door. "Enter," he said, opening the door with a wandless spell. He didn't rise immediately when Minerva stepped into the room. "I'm sorry, am I disturbing you?" she asked. "No, my dear. I've just been catching up on my correspondence. What can I do for you?" "You weren't at dinner, and I wasn't sure if you still wanted to play chess," she said. Had he forgotten? "Ah, our chess game ... I had quite lost track of the time. Please forgive me." "If you're too busy, we can skip it." "No," he said, standing and coming around the desk. "Come ..." He gestured to a bookshelf on the back wall, which immediately moved to reveal a mahogany door. When they entered his sitting room, he asked, "Would you care for a drink?" Now she was more concerned. They didn't usually have their nightcap until after they had played. "No, thank you." She opened the drawer in which he kept the chess set, but he stopped her, saying, "Not just yet, my dear. Why don't you come sit next to me, and we can have a bit of a talk, all right?" She joined him on a settee near the fireplace, growing increasingly alarmed at this sudden change in the routine they had so recently established. "Is there something wrong?" He hesitated just a moment too long. "No. Not precisely." "Imprecisely, then, what's the matter?" she asked, trying to diffuse some of the tension with a weak jest. There was a long silence, and when he spoke again, it was nearly a whisper. "I don't know if I can make you happy, Minerva." She might have laughed if he had not been so obviously distressed. She told him, "It isn't your job to make me happy. It's my own responsibility. You could break my heart again, or I yours, of course, but happiness ... I think that's something we are either able to take from one another or not. I am happy when I'm with you, and unhappy when I'm not. That's really all there is to it." "No, that isn't all there it to it." "What else is there?" "I am ... not the man you think I am." "What do you mean?" "The things I have done ... my soul ... I am ... not whole." His near inability to speak frightened her more than his words. She groped for her reason, and marshalling it, she spoke. "Are we, any of us, entirely whole? You don't come up through the world as it is without damage. What makes you worse than any of the rest of us?" "Oh, Minerva. You don't know ..." "What don't I know?" "How can I tell you?" "Tell me." When he remained silent, she said, "Albus, you can tell me anything. I love you. Whatever you have to say won't change that." "That is easy to say," he said reproachfully. She thought for a moment. "You're right. It was an easy platitude, and I'm sorry. You don't deserve that from me. But I think you should tell me anyway—even if you think it will change things between us. It's already between us if you think you can't be with me because of it." He reached out and caressed her cheek with his rough hand. "My love. If I tell you, will you promise to remember that you are my love? Whatever you may think of me." She turned her head to kiss his palm. "Yes. I will remember." He withdrew his hand and put it in his lap, looking down at it, then up at her once again. "Once upon a time, I loved Gellert Grindelwald." When she didn't respond, he asked, "Do you understand?" "I'm not sure I do." "I mean that I was in love with him." She was quiet, but he saw her begin to bite her bottom lip, and his heart contracted. He was going to lose her, he knew it. His mistake had already cost him his sister's life and his brother's regard; now it would cost him Minerva as well. It was his just deserts. "Say something, Minerva." "Tell me about it, Albus. Tell me about him." "I'll try," he said. "After I had finished at Hogwarts, I had to go back to Godric's Hollow to take care of my sister and brother. My mother had died, you see, and my father ... he was in Azkaban." At her look of surprise, he said, "That is a story for another time, however. Aberforth was making noises about quitting school after his fourth year. And my sister, Ariana ... she was disturbed, thanks to an accident when she was a child. She could not control her magic, and one day, shortly after I finished at Hogwarts, she accidentally killed our mother." "Oh, Albus," said Minerva, and he could see the tears begin to form in her eyes. "With my father in Azkaban, I became head of the family. So all my grand plans were set aside so that I could care for my brother and sister. Shortly after that, Gellert came to Godric's Hollow. He had been tossed out of Durmstrang and was in some kind of trouble—as I found out later—so he had come to stay with his aunt, who was our neighbour. She introduced us. I think she thought I could use someone more interesting than Aberforth and herself to talk with, and how right she was! "Gellert was fascinating, quite simply put. He was brilliant and talented and powerful. As much as I, and perhaps more so." Albus's voice lowered a little. "And he was beautiful." As Albus said this, he realised that he had, at one time or another, called Minerva all those things too. He wondered if she would make the connection, but he couldn't stop. The words came pouring out of him now, as if a phial of long-stoppered memory had been uncorked and upended all at once into a Pensieve. "I fell in love. I had never felt that way before, Minerva. I had never met anyone, man or woman, who intrigued me so, who thought the way I did, who felt the way I did about so many things. I was blinded by it. I was so enraptured that I saw only what I wanted to see. I didn't see his cruelty, for example. Or his madness. I saw only his brilliance. His brilliance ... and his desire. "I was naïve. In every way. I thought that he desired me. It was incredibly exciting to feel desired in that way. Nobody had ever wanted me for anything but my mind before, and he made me feel that he wanted all of me. "I don't know, maybe he did, maybe he sought in me what I sought in him, but I think that he only ever desired power and saw that I could help give him that. And Merlin help me, I would have done it. I would have. If he hadn't turned on my family." "Albus—" Minerva said, and he didn't know if she was trying to stop him, if she didn't want to hear any more, but he couldn't help it. He had never told it before, and now he couldn't stop. "He started with Aberforth. They argued, and he used the Cruciatus on my brother. When I intervened, he turned on Ariana. Said dreadful things. He said, 'She's useless anyway. We'll take her with us, use her as bait. For practice.' And then he did it to her ... performed the Cruciatus. She didn't make a sound, just lay there, twitching with her mouth open and no sound coming out. I was frozen. I couldn't move. But Aberforth stopped it. He's a powerful wizard—deceptively powerful—and he stopped it. Then we all duelled, Ariana just lying there on the floor, not making a sound, but watching us with her mouth open in this terrible silent scream. To this day, I don't know who cast the curse—we were all letting fly by then—but she was hit. We all stopped casting, but it was too late. She was dead." "Gods, Albus," breathed Minerva, tears running down her cheeks. He didn't realise he had been crying too, not until she reached out and gently brushed the tears from his cheeks. She took his face between her palms and kissed the tracks his tears had made, then pulled his head to her, cradling him against her fragrant neck. He inhaled her scent, listening to her breathing for a few minutes, and it soothed him. When he finally found the courage to lift his head and look at her, he asked, "Are you shocked?" "I'm shocked that you didn't kill Grindelwald when you had the chance. I'm not sure I could have held back." "Ahhh," he groaned. "That's just it. My sister's death—that wasn't the worst of it. I knew what he was, Minerva. I knew it. But I didn't go after him. Not until it was almost too late. I was afraid. Not of him, but of what I might feel. I was afraid ... to be tempted again." He buried his face against her chest and took a shuddering breath as she stroked his hair. "So I let him go on killing and killing, getting stronger, until I had to do something. Because I was a coward. I was afraid, Minerva ... so afraid ..." he sobbed, clutching the edge of her robe in one fist. "Shh, my darling," she said. "It's all over with. You did what you had to do. You stopped him. It's enough." "No, no, no," he moaned against her. "Not enough, not enough ... nothing ... never ..." "Shh, love, shh," she whispered, rocking him in her arms until his sobs subsided. When he finally felt in control of his voice again, he asked her, "Do you hate me?" "No. I could never hate you, Albus." "And my loving a man ... that man ... in the past ... does that not sicken you?" "No. I don't know exactly how I feel about it, but it doesn't sicken me," she answered. She then asked, somewhat hesitantly, "Do you still have ... feelings for men?" "No. And I've never loved anyone since ... until you." She looked confused. "But surely you've—" "Don't mistake me, Minerva. I haven't been celibate. I have had lovers since Gellert—women, all. But I haven't loved any of them. Desired them, yes. But not loved, do you see?" "Yes, I think so." "I didn't think I could feel that for anyone again. You changed that." "I'm glad," she said. "Are you?" "Yes." He lay against her for a time, feeling spent and empty. "But you see, Minerva, why I am so uneasy about our relationship? You were so young—the same age I was when I met Gellert, in fact—when I fell in love with you. You were so like me in so many ways—lonely, perhaps isolated by your intelligence, and deeply troubled by some of the things happening around you. Wanting to break free and exercise your formidable gifts. I was afraid that you saw only my power and my talent. And my desire. I don't want you to make the same mistake I did with Gellert." "You are not Gellert Grindelwald, Albus. You are a good man," she said forcefully. "Perhaps. But I am a man with many of the same failings. Pride, ambition ..." "But you love. I don't think the Gellert Grindelwalds of the world have that ability, for all their supposed power." "No. And I do love you, Minerva. I do. I'm just afraid of what my love might do to you." "What? What are you afraid of, my darling?" "I'm afraid I might ... I don't know ... suffocate you." "I won't let that happen." "Or that you'll be hurt by your connection with me. I have many enemies, Minerva, both powerful and petty." "I can defend myself." "I don't just mean physical danger—I know you are a strong witch—but that you will suffer in other ways. Your career—" "My career is here, at the moment." "Your research—" "Will get done. If not by me, then by someone else," she finished. "I don't care if I never get published again. Don't you see? I've been doing all those things—pursuing my 'brilliant' career, doing research, making my name—for the past twelve years, and as wonderful as it's occasionally been, it's not enough. Something has been missing. You. Every time I made a discovery, every time I read my name in print or on some award, I'd think, 'I wonder what Albus would say about this?' Why do you suppose I chucked it all to come here? Not because I thought you and I would take up where we left off, but because I just wanted to be near you again, to have you in my life. To see you every day, to talk to you, to share things with you. "You may very well hurt me, Albus, but you won't hurt me the way Gellert hurt you, because you love me. I know you do." "Gods, Minerva," he breathed. "I don't know how you can love me. I'm so ashamed." "Of what?" "Of having loved that ... creature," he said. "Don't be ashamed of having loved someone, Albus. Even him. You can be ashamed of what you did because of it, maybe, but love ... I don't think it belongs in the same breath as shame." She gently settled him back against her chest again, putting her arms around him and laying her cheek on the top of his head. "I love you, Albus. And I'm not afraid of it. I hope, in time, you'll stop being afraid too." He made as if to move, perhaps to remonstrate with her, but she held him firmly. "Hush, now. Just rest awhile and let me hold you." They sat like that for some time until Albus yawned. Minerva said, "You'd better get to bed. You're exhausted, and we both have to be up in the morning." He didn't seem to have any will to move, so she gently disentangled herself from him and stood, holding out her hand to him and leading him to his bedroom, where she undressed him. Summoning a nightshirt from his dresser, she pulled it on over his head and encouraged him to put his arms through the sleeves. She led him to the bed and pulled back the bedclothes. He got in, and she pulled the covers up around him, kissing his forehead as if he were a child she was tucking in for the night. He caught her hand as she moved away, asking, "Stay with me?" "For a while, yes. Until you fall asleep," she said, and came around to lie next to him on top of the bedclothes. She spooned up against his back and put her arm around him. After a few minutes, his breathing became deep and rhythmic. She moved his hair out of the way and placed a light kiss to the back of his neck, then got up. When she had closed his door behind her, she popped into her tabby form and padded quickly and silently through the castle and out across the grounds, hoping nobody would see her. She Apparated from the gate to the garden of the Burbage cottage. When she let herself into the house, she was surprised to see Charity coming out of the kitchen. "Oh! I hope I didn't wake you," she said. "Oh, no, dear," said Charity. "I couldn't sleep so I came down for a bit of warm milk. Would you like some?" "No, thank you." "Did you have a nice time?" "Um. Fine, yes" Minerva said. As Minerva turned to go up the stairs, Charity said, "You know, Minerva, if you'd like to bring your young man to dinner some evening, it would be just fine. Or I can arrange to visit Charles for a night or two on occasion, if you need the house to yourselves." Minerva was at a loss for words. Charity gave a chuckle. "You don't really expect me to believe you play chess with old Albus every Saturday night until nearly midnight, do you?" When Minerva opened her mouth, the older witch held up a hand and continued, "It's all right, dear. I know you like your privacy, so I won't pry. All I meant was you're young and attractive; it's only natural for you to have a gentleman friend or two. You don't need to pretend otherwise for my sake. I am an adult witch, after all, you know." Minerva could think of nothing to say to that. "I ... thank you, Charity. I'll think about it. Well, good night." "Good night, dear. Sleep well." ← Back to Chapter 36 On to Chapter 38→ Category:Chapters of Epithalamium